Writing a book was harder than Daisy and Onslow had thought in the beginning. Yes, they knew it wouldn't be easy—but getting characters just right and making them believable was a task in itself, and trying to move the story along without the plot wearing thin—that was a challenge! The plot itself was excellent; it involved 'Florence', disappointed by the failure of her smaller social gatherings, planning a huge event that would embarrass her spectacularly—if she ignored the warning signs of impending doom.
"It's a good plot, but we need to flesh out the story more," was Daisy's correct analysis. "But work the material into the story so that it doesn't add to much filler."
"Don't start a sentence with a prepositional phrase," Onslow had said to Daisy's comment.
"We're not writing the book at the moment; we're just conversing," Daisy said, laughing.
"Oh, right," Onslow admitted sheepishly. "Your Rose is right—we need to be careful not to get too mired in writing!"
"Yes, but right now we need to figure out how to get inspiration for our novel," Daisy pointed out.
Onslow suggested that the two of them talk to people that Hyacinth knew, to get some insight into others' views of the 'Candlelight Queen'. The first person they consulted was the spunky, elderly heiress—Mrs. Fortescue. She, Daisy, and Onslow gathered in their favorite pub one very overcast day and spent a comfortable hour conversing while cold rain lashed against the windows.
"Tell me, Mrs. Fortescue," Daisy said, sitting with her pencil at the ready. "Tell me about the time you first met Hyacinth. What happened, and what did you think?"
The elderly heiress smiled. "How honest should I be?"
"Just be honest…I know you wouldn't be mean."
"Well," Mrs. Fortescue began, as if telling an epic saga, "It all started one bright Saturday morning…"
Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Fortescue took a large swallow of beer and asked of Daisy, "Did I do all right? Did you get what you needed?"
Daisy assured her that she had excellent material. Indeed, the writing on the notes was slightly shaky, for Daisy had been laughing shamelessly at Mrs. Fortescue's story, earning some odd looks from the people around her.
"It's not that there's anything wrong with your sister," Mrs. Fortescue said with sincerity. "She just has this odd, irritating naiveté about her, thinking she's someone incredibly important. I think it's her total control over her poor husband that she could improve upon. As in, stop."
"It's odd, but I think he really does love her," Daisy reflected. "I guess I can't fully understand it, but not everyone can understand why I love an old oaf like Onslow."
"I choose to take that as a compliment," Onslow interjected.
"Maybe so," Mrs. Fortescue concurred. "And really, if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have met you two and Rose. Well, I have to run off—need to see my damn lawyers again. It seems they don't know how to write up my will if I'm not hanging over their shoulders."
"We'll let you know how our novel is going along," Daisy assured the heiress.
"And don't speed, my lady!" Onslow teased. "You wouldn't want to lose your license again and have to ask Hyacinth and Richard for another ride!"
…
"I can't believe I'm going voluntarily to one of your Hyacinth's candlelight suppers," Onslow grumbled, struggling into a suit coat.
"I'm still getting over the fact that invites us now," Daisy said. "She's seemed a little more relaxed in that aspect ever since Rose married Emmett."
"Well, there'd better be something to put in our book tonight. Staying in your Hyacinth's dining room and listening to her talk—and sing!—ought to inspire something."
"I'm sure we'll get something," Daisy said cheerfully. "Now come along, we don't want to be late!"
Hyacinth's place settings were as immaculate as ever, and flickering candlelight danced over the guests' faces and the perfectly polished wine glasses. After everyone was settled at the table, Hyacinth shrilly commanded Richard to "bring the appetizers". He quickly obeyed, and the guests were presented with 'eggplant and carrot puffs', which were about as appetizing as they sounded.
As soon as the food had been served, the Major commandeered Hyacinth's attention—though the good lady, in all honesty, did not particularly welcome it. Daisy and Onslow turned their attention to the conversations that were being exchanged around the table.
Alice Evans was talking animatedly to Rose (which at one time would have been impossible to imagine—in Rose's distant and regretted past, she'd 'pursued' the vicar, without success). A scrap of their conversation caught Daisy's and Onslow's attention immediately.
"…can't imagine who would do it. He or she would have to know"— here Alice lowered her voice, but Daisy and Onslow were close enough to discern the words—"how much he dislikes Hyacinth."
Even in the flickering candlelight, Daisy and Onslow could see a queer expression flash over Rose's face; she knew who'd pulled the trick, but managed to say, somewhat lamely: "Quite mysterious!"
"I must confess that it was rather amusing," Alice said, to which her husband protested, "Now, Ally, how can you say that?"
"Well, it was," Alice said primly.
When Hyacinth managed to throw off the Major's advances, she took over the conversation, and there was plenty of inspiration for the novel. Hyacinth seemed especially keen on bragging that night, mentioning how she had met 'his Lordship' after an estate sale at a nearby manse*. Daisy and Onslow noted, with great amusement, that Hyacinth did not mention how gloriously drunk she had become after sharing 'Dowager Lady Ursula's Homemade Gooseberry Wine' with 'his Lordship' and Richard.
"He realized what a woman of quality I am, and invited Richard and me for a drink at his very own mansion," Hyacinth said airily.
"He was a nice fellow," Richard opined. "Quite gracious of him to enjoy a drink with us."
"Well, he did recognize class," Hyacinth said proudly, and then 'entertained' the guests by singing 'Moon River'.
To the relief of everyone but the Major, the evening came to a close earlier than usual, and Daisy's and Onslow's heads were swimming with ideas. They did get a slight surprise, however, as they left; the vicar halted them at the door (when Hyacinth was out of earshot) and said to Onslow:
"You used to work with electrics, didn't you, Onslow?"
"Yes," Onslow answered, puzzled about the rather offhand inquiry.
"Is it possible to trace a phone call back to the caller?"
This reply took Onslow aback and he answered slowly: "No."
"Pity!" Michael exclaimed. "I was just curious because, well, did you hear the story that Alice was telling Rose?"
"Er, yeah, that was a pretty unexpected trick, wasn't it?" Onslow said, hoping that his expression didn't give him away.
"I was just wondering if I would find out who did it," the vicar said, smiling wryly. Daisy and Onslow must have looked worried, for Michael continued:
"Don't look so alarmed, you two. I wouldn't do anything uncharitable—I'd just find out the reason for that prank."
…
Three months passed, and the rough draft of the book was halfway finished. Daisy and Onslow's bedroom now looked like a stationary shop; they had set up a table next to the desk, and it was covered with sheets of paper bearing notes, annotations, and even a few illustrations, just for fun, which Rose had sketched.
"I've been thinking, Dais'," Onslow said reflectively one night, "there are some people who actually like your Hyacinth—"
"I like Hyacinth," Daisy protested.
"Well, I meant like her as in they really don't see her faults, or think she's everything."
"Oh, I see what you're saying," Daisy answered. "Hmm…the only ones I can think of are the Major and that Commodore person she told me about."
"We ought to talk to the Major. We should to throw in a character like him for some variety."
Daisy agreed to the idea with alacrity. Three days later they were driving to the Major's rambling country estate; he already waiting at the door when they arrived, and was smiling eagerly as the crisply dressed pair approached.
"I'm so excited that you wish to interview me about the delightful Hyacinth 'Bouquet'," the Major said, hurrying them through the front hall and a large study.
"I'm glad she's finally being recognized as a community figurehead," the Major continued as Daisy and Onslow settled onto ornate velvet chairs. "Delia Wheelwright hasn't got anything on her."
"Oh, yes!" Daisy said, and went on casually, "Of course we're not real reporters, but this opinion submission should get in the paper. It ought to."
"Indeed!" the Major agreed, thinking that Daisy was being serious. Imagine the sumptuous Mrs. 'Bouquet' in the papers! He quickly launched into a monologue about why he admired Hyacinth. Some of his phrases made Daisy cringe: 'classy minx', 'alluring hostess', and 'inviting lady' among others. Onslow, however, repeatedly had to turn a chuckle into a cough.
"Is your husband ill, Mrs. Taylor?" the Major asked.
...
Through various sly ways and clever planning, Daisy and Onslow got much material for the book—more than needed, really, but it didn't hurt to have extra material. Oddly enough, Emmett, who once would have been a fount of stories, was now a little more defensive of his sister-in-law; still, he did provide some humorous anecdotes, as did Liz. They even managed to track down Mrs. Councilor Nugent, whose view of Hyacinth was so stark that Daisy frequently had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something uncharitable. She adamantly left Mrs. Nugent out of the story.
"Oh, come on, it'll be fun," Onslow had wheedled at the time. He always liked for there to be a real protagonist in the story.
"No," Daisy said firmly. "We want to keep this light-hearted and good-natured."
"Even comedic novels can have protagonists!"
"Sorry. Not happening," Daisy had said with an air of authority to match that of Hyacinth's.
Months passed, and eventually Daisy and Onslow decided that the rough draft was ready to be sent to various publishers. One crisp autumn afternoon, which Daisy had spent cleaning and organizing the council house yet again, Onslow prepared go to the post office to photocopy the manuscript.
"Dais', would you bring down our fine novel?" Onslow called up the stairs, idly turning his tinner's key over and over in his hand and wondering what kind of car he'd get if (or when, in his mind) the book would be published.
"Yeah, one moment!" Daisy replied.
Several seconds passed as Onslow waited impatiently. Then:
"Where did you put it? It's not in the desk drawer! "
"I didn't move it!" Onslow shouted. "You put it away while I went out to fetch dinner last night!"
"Well, maybe you took it out and forgot!" Daisy exclaimed. "Oh, never mind! Come up here and help me find it!"
Onslow went up the stairs and strode over to the desk in their bedroom, where Daisy was frantically checking every drawer. Onslow looked under the pillows and blankets on their beds, on the bookshelf where he kept his large collection of science textbooks—but it was nowhere.
The two combed over the entire council house again, but the manuscript was mysteriously gone. They even checked the dustbins, but it wasn't there.
"This is bizarre," Onslow groaned. "I wonder if one of us accidentally tossed it out with last week's rubbish collection. Oh, God, that couldn't have happened! It would be unjust! It would be wrong!"
Daisy sat down heavily in a nearby chair and clenched her fists in frustration. "I wonder if it was me. I'm so bent on a clean house lately!"
With a regretful smile, Onslow shook his head and said as cheerfully as possible, "It could have been either of us." Then, as a non-sequitor: "We're out of beer. I think I need to replenish our supply."
At that moment, Daisy and Onslow's shaggy wolfhound, Melly, came trotting in from where she'd been sleeping in the warm kitchen. And there, in her mouth was a pack of paper stapled together!
"Melly!" Daisy exclaimed in disbelief. "Melly, that's our manuscript! Drop it right now!"
Melly obeyed quickly, but wagged her tail in an ingratiating way.
"Melly, if you ruined it—" Onslow said, picking up the manuscript. Luckily there was just a little ink smudging on the left-hand margins.
"We bring you in where it's warm, and this is what you do?" Daisy said. Melly gave a short, dismissive bark and sauntered back to the kitchen, and Onslow left immediately to photocopy his and Daisy's pet project.
…
The very day after the manuscript had been recovered, envelopes containing copies of it were sent out to various publishers. The authors couldn't wait to hear back. Of course, they didn't expect immediate replies, much less an agreement to publish, but still, one could hope.
Replies did come, however, and the first one was short and to the point.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Taylor: Thank you for submitting your manuscript of False Impressions of the Social Wannabe. While an interesting storyline, this is not the kind of novel that we at Maple Leaf Books will find successful at this time. Good luck in all your endeavors.
Daisy and Onslow did not take this 'rejection letter' too hard, for it was only one publisher; there were others who might pick up this humorous novel, might see the brilliance of it. Of course, there was a thought in the back of their minds that it might not be as good as they thought it was—after all, they were the authors, and it might have made them rather biased against opposite opinions.
Now that the novel was finished, life seemed a little lackluster, but there was the excitement of waiting for replies from publishers, even if they knew better than to expect too much.
And the replies kept coming in.
Crescent Publications. Whitley Books. Yardley Fiction Press. Readers' Gateway, and fifteen other publishers—all refusals. There was only one publisher that not answered, five months after the manuscripts had been sent out. Daisy and Onslow tried not to be too disappointed. Fleur D'Lis Books was a small publisher; maybe they had to be more selective.
"Well, we tried, Dais'," Onslow said, on the day they'd given up hope of ever getting an answer, much less publication.
At that moment a shuffling sound announced that the mail had been pushed through the letter slot. Onslow walked into the hall and listlessly picked up the mail. There was no point in expecting anything anymore, he thought gloomily, but as he picked up the pile of mail, the top envelope caught his eye.
The return address was for Fleur D'Lis books!
"We got a letter from the Fleur D'Lis folks, Daisy," Onslow said, shuffling into the living room. Daisy looked up from crocheting (her new hobby) and shrugged.
"Well, open it," she said listlessly.
"I know, I shouldn't get excited," Onslow admitted. He opened the envelope haphazardly and yanked out a letter—a long one. The first paragraph caught his eye, and he stared.
"Dais'! Dais', come here!" he gasped.
Daisy looked at the letter and her eyes widened.
"I don't believe it," she said breathlessly.
Well, here's the latest installment—I'll have more up (probably two more chapters) next week.